by Coleen Kwan
Taking charge once more, he laid her on her back. His fingers reached between her legs and caressed her with long slow strokes until she was drenched and writhing. Wet and mad with desire, she could only think of one thing—Julian entering her and filling her to the core. Acceding to her wants, he claimed her with possessive force, the delicious hard thrust of his body the sole reality in her thrumming universe. Their bodies moved together in primitive harmony, heat and tightness and spiralling pleasure, their coupling earthy and urgent. As he reached the deepest part of her, he awakened new facets in her and she found herself in a place she’d never visited before. In a quick hot rush that was almost painful, they climaxed together, and when they fell upon the pillows, she felt as if she’d fallen from a great height, and she was grateful for the darkness that suddenly swamped her.
After a while she realised Julian was calling her name softly, and she blinked her eyes open.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, concern etched on his face.
She shook her head. “No, I merely…I was merely overwhelmed. With pleasure.” She gave him a weak grin. “You made me swoon.”
He tucked the sheet under her chin and felt her forehead. “I’m flattered you think so, but I’d rather my lovemaking didn’t render you insensible.”
She caught his hand in hers and pressed a kiss on the back of it. “Oh, Julian. Never have I experienced such—such magnificence. It was sheer bliss, was it not?”
“Magical,” he murmured.
Yes, it was like nothing she’d ever dreamed of, and now she’d had a taste she feared it would not be enough.
Sometime later the fire had died down to a glowing bank of ashes, and Nellie lay in Julian’s arms, her head curled upon his shoulder. The sweat was cooling off their bodies from their third coupling, and she hazily thought that she might be sated enough to sleep. Julian absentmindedly played with one of her tresses. His body seemed relaxed, but she sensed his thoughts were not so at ease. Glancing up at him, she felt a tremendous tug of emotion towards him. Always, in so many ways, he was there for her, even though he had equally pressing concerns of his own.
“Julian?” she murmured, twisting herself around the better to view his face. “Tell me about your birth.”
For a moment he looked startled. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. For instance, how do you imagine you landed here on Elijah’s doorstep?”
He stroked her hair meditatively before saying, “I have no solid proof as yet. This is all conjecture, but…I imagine my mother, once her pregnancy was discovered, would not have been allowed to remain in the family’s Mayfair home. She would have been bundled off to spend her confinement in anonymity somewhere.”
“Somewhere like around here, perhaps?”
He nodded. “Perhaps. At the time of my birth, this place was quiet, remote. Mr. Cazalet mentioned my mother was accompanied by some old governess of hers. She must have been a confidante, if she went with my mother to have her brooch repaired. Perhaps this governess came from nearby, knew of Elijah’s kindness, and decided to leave the baby—me—on his doorstep, knowing I’d be well cared for.”
From the flow of his words she knew he’d already mulled over this possibility many times, and her heart went out to him. She didn’t quite understand the need that drove him, but she could see how the uncertainty gnawed at him, and that only increased her ire towards Sir Thaddeus a thousand-fold.
She placed her palm over his heart, wishing to feel his heartbeat. “And what will you do next?” she asked.
“I intend focussing my enquiries on this old governess. If I can identify her, she may be able to tell me more.”
“About what?”
“About the circumstances of my birth. I’m convinced that Ophelia Ormond was my mother, but I know nothing about her or how she came to be in such a dire situation.” He paused a while, his jaw flexing. “I wish to know who my father was, and why he abandoned my mother to such a cruel fate. Perhaps he was unaware of her condition or was forced out of her life…or perhaps he was simply an opportunistic rake with the morals of an alley cat.”
Beneath her hand, his heart beat faster. She smoothed his skin, longing to soothe the tumult festering within him. “Do you really want to discover that?”
“Like you, I want to discover the truth, however unpalatable.”
But Sir Thaddeus would thwart his every attempt. She knew without him having to state the obvious. How awful if Julian never achieved his goal. How terrible if he spent the rest of his life pursuing the unattainable.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, suddenly overcome with emotion.
“Sweetheart…” Perplexed, he reached for her. “Whatever for?”
Leaning over him, she cupped his face with her hands. The stubble on his jaw prickled pleasurably against her palms. “For being such a burden on you, for compelling you to pursue my aims to the detriment of yours.”
“You’re no burden. Far from it.” He ran a finger over her bottom lip. “Nothing as sweet as this could be a burden…”
The tenderness of his touch ambushed her heart, filled her with goldenness. She had come to his bed seeking physical release and comfort, yet she’d received something far more, something precious and terrifying at the same time. She wrapped her arms fiercely around him, desperate to savour every moment they had left of the night. Soon sleep would come, the sun would rise and the world would intrude, but for now they were simply a man and a woman in thrall with one another, and that was all she wanted.
Chapter Ten
“Well? How do I look?” Holding out both arms, Nellie spun around in front of Julian, causing the layers of multicoloured shawls and skirts to swirl about her.
“Suitably gaudy,” Julian said. “But you shouldn’t dance about so. Remember, you’re playing an eerie and mysterious woman.”
“Ah, you’re right.” Nellie adopted an ominous expression and paraded around Julian’s workroom with a ponderous gait, the stiff skirts rustling against her legs. “Is this sufficiently spine-chilling?”
He chuckled. “Madame Dariya, the resemblance to your cousin Madame Olga is quite uncanny.”
Her grin faded as she contemplated herself in the full-length mirror. Easy enough dressing up for a lark, but could she convince Pip that she was a genuine replacement for his spiritual medium? Would he be satisfied that she hide her face behind a thick veil? Or would he recognise her voice beneath the fake accent she would assume? And, more importantly, could she convince him that she was in touch with the spirit of his dead wife? The evening could end in disaster and humiliation if he was not taken in by her disguise.
“You appear worried,” Julian interrupted her milling thoughts. “You think my plan is too bizarre and desperate to succeed. Well, it’s not too late to change your mind.”
But if she did, she might never uncover the truth, and she would be condemning herself to a life in the shadows. She didn’t want to cower forever. She wanted a new start, a new life. And there was Julian to consider. Her eyes sought him out unerringly as he leaned against a workbench. Dressed in black, he was lithe and muscular and dangerously alluring. Vitality emanated from every inch of him. She curled her hands into fists, fighting the temptation to reach out and touch him.
True to her word, their night of passion had not been repeated. Not because her attraction for him had waned—far from it, her hunger for him grew stronger every hour until she could barely stand it—but that one night was the only respite she could afford until she had resolved matters with Pip once and for all. Only after she’d settled her lingering doubts and fears would she be able to consider her future, a future which might conjoin with Julian’s, although she couldn’t be sure. It was no easy task ignoring the heat between them. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Julian had concurred with her decision, for if he’d decided to press her for another night, she doubted she had the necessary firmness of purpose to deny him.
“No, I cannot change my mind,” she said. “
Whatever the outcome, this needs to be settled. And besides, you’ve already paid Madame Olga for the use of her rooms tonight. We can’t let that go to waste.”
He nodded, a gleam of approval shooting through his coal-black eyes. “Very well, then. We’d best be off.”
They mounted their horses and set off in the direction of the city. After a few days of clear weather, the road was almost dry, but winter lingered in the razor-sharp night wind that gusted over them. Nellie drew her cloak closer. The chill enveloping her was due only in part to the weather.
Four days had passed since she had first rushed so impetuously into Madame Olga’s rooms. Since then, she’d returned once with Julian, after he had persuaded the woman by means of a large purse of coins to give them the use of her rooms when Pip made his next appointment. At first Madame Olga had been suspicious, but the lure of easy money was too much, and eventually she’d agreed and consented to give Nellie a few instructions on how to conduct a spiritual session. By now the outright chicanery of her spiritualism was tacitly agreed on by all—it was a purely business transaction between them. Pip had sent word to Madame Olga that he would stop by at eight that night, and Madame Olga had passed on the message to Julian and assured him she and her brawny bodyguard would not be seen near her apartment all night.
The journey to Madame Olga’s was some miles, but for Nellie it was over far too quickly. They tethered their horses in the courtyard behind the spiritualist’s house and found the key beneath the broken flowerpot near the back door as Madame Olga had instructed.
As they entered the apartment, stale air greeted them, musty with the odour of cheap incense and boiled cabbage. Nellie resisted the urge to fling open the windows. The authenticity of the atmosphere had to be preserved. She lit the single candle on the table, arranged the bread on the plate, settled the heavy veil over her head, and sat down.
“Vell, meester,” she addressed Julian in her best foreign accent. “Iz zis goot?”
He leaned towards her. “Hmm. Let me see… The shadows hide your face well, but as an extra precaution we need less light.” He dimmed the lamp shining in the corner. “Yes, that’s much better. And keep the accent lighter. It will be easier to maintain it as the séance progresses.”
She nodded, her fingers plucking nervously at her skirts as their starchy discomfort intensified her tension. “I never realised Pip believed so strongly in spiritualism. I find it quite dismaying.”
“He needs a crutch, and the kind of spiritualism Madame Olga dispenses gives him that crutch.”
And once, she had been Pip’s crutch. That was what had made her so important to him, the promise of undying support, that was what he’d sought from her.
“Yes, people like Madame Olga feed upon people’s insecurities, but wouldn’t it be a marvel if we could indeed communicate with the dead?”
Julian gave her a sharp look. “Surely you’re not serious?”
She recalled the first time she’d confronted Madame Olga and the uncanny sensation she’d experienced, the spine-chilling suspicion that the room was populated not only with the living. But tonight only stale odours filled the air. She smiled ruefully. “No, I suppose I’m being fanciful. I acknowledge there’s no rational proof backing spiritual mediums, but…but some phenomena cannot be explained.”
“The unearthly rapping noises? You’ve seen for yourself how Tibor produces them for Madame Olga’s sessions.”
She hesitated to tell him of her passing, unearthly alarm in this room, but there had been other instances in her past. “No, I mean other less tangible things, like—like the prickling of my nape I sometimes got when checking the wards at night.” At the memory she couldn’t help rubbing her upper arms.
“You were alone at night in an asylum,” Julian said, all prosaic sense. “Who wouldn’t get the occasional attack of nerves? It was simply your imagination.”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “You’re right.” And yet she was not entirely convinced. Suffering and misery lingered on beyond the grave; indeed, the walls of the asylum had been soaked with the tormented remnants of past ghosts.
“Are you afraid you will accidentally conjure up a spirit?” He gestured towards the candle, his expression jesting.
“No, of course not.” Squaring her shoulders, she sat more upright. “I’m just a little anxious, that’s all. Look, it’s almost eight o’clock.”
“There’s nothing to be anxious about.” Reaching over, he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I shall be right behind that curtain all the time, ready to leap out at a moment’s notice. Just remember why you’re here and what you wish to accomplish, and you’ll do well. Trust me.”
She started to smile back at him when a sudden knock on the front door rang out, and her lips froze.
“Pip! He’s early,” she whispered frantically.
“Good. We’re all set. Do your best and it will be over very soon.” With a final squeeze of her shoulder, he hastened away and disappeared behind the curtain.
Nellie straightened the tablecloth, patted down her veil and shawls, and drew in a deep breath. “Enter,” she said in a guttural voice.
The door cracked open, and Pip eased in. As soon as he caught sight of her, he halted dead in his tracks.
“Where is Madame Olga?” he blurted out in a high-pitched voice.
Nellie cleared her throat. “Good evening, Mr. Barchester. Madame Olga was called away unexpectedly this morning,” she said carefully, lacing her tone with just a touch of foreignness. “She knew you were coming, so she asked me to give you this.” From the folds of her sleeve, she drew out a spurious note and passed it to Pip.
He took the note warily and read it with an anxious frown. Nellie battled to keep herself perfectly still.
“So you’re Madame Dariya?” Pip asked, eyeing her doubtfully.
Nellie inclined her head. “That is correct. I am a spiritual medium, just like my cousin. I will conduct your session tonight, if you are willing.”
Pip fiddled with his necktie and pulled at his lip. “I’m not sure if I wish…I’ve been coming to Madame Olga many times. I know her, but you I don’t know at all…”
As his voice trailed off uncertainly, Nellie found her hands clenching beneath the tablecloth. Pip was staring straight at her. Even though she was hidden beneath veils and shawls, surely he could discern something familiar about her? Surely he could recognise his own wife? But as she took in his worried confusion, she knew he saw only what he wanted to see, heard only what he wanted to hear. Madame Olga must have rubbed her hands in glee at landing such a plump pigeon as he.
“You are worried about the veil, yes?” she said, deciding to take the bull by the horns. “As a young girl I had a bad attack of smallpox which left my entire body scarred. Usually I keep my face covered for the sake of my clients, but—” she picked up the corner of her veil, “—if you don’t mind seeing my disfigurement I can take it off.”
“No, no, please!” Pip flinched away, unable to hide his aversion. “Please, er, Madame Dariya, please retain your veil.”
Pip worshipped beauty and perfection. She’d suspected he’d not have the stomach to view a damaged face, and he’d proven her correct. She lowered her veil. As though ashamed of his squeamishness, Pip stared at her hands, both of which were covered in net gloves, her artificial fingers cleverly disguised.
“Mr. Barchester,” she continued, “if you are unsure, I have a proposition. I will conduct the session for you, and at the conclusion, you will pay me only if you’re satisfied. Will that do?”
“We-ell…” Pip tugged at his bottom lip even harder. “I suppose with Madame Olga gone for an indeterminate time, and I have come all this way…” He plumped himself down in the seat opposite her. “Very well, I agree. Conduct your séance, Madame Dariya, and I shall reserve judgement.”
“You understand that I am not Madame Olga. The spirits may have a different message for me, perhaps something you are not prepared for.”
“Oh, yes, yes.” Pip rubbed the back of his neck.
“Who is the spirit you wish to communicate with?”
“My—my wife. Her name was N-Nellie. Nellie Barchester.”
At the sound of her own name, Nellie felt her heart thump hard in her chest. She managed to keep her voice even as she asked, “Tell me about your wife. Did she meet with an untimely death?”
Pip almost jerked out of his seat. “Why do you ask that?” His eyes were round and bulging. “Madame Olga never asked me any questions!”
“Every medium is different. I ask only to gain a sense of your wife. It will make it easier for me to connect with her, but you needn’t tell me if you don’t wish to.”
Gulping, he ran his fingers through his floppy blond curls. “Well, it’s just that she—she did meet her end in rather, er, unpleasant circumstances. I’d rather not go into that,” he added stiffly.
“As you wish.” Beneath her smooth response, she was seething. Unpleasant circumstances? Is that what he termed unpleasant, having her face hacked beyond recognition and then being drowned in the Thames? “We shall begin.”
Gathering her self-control, she raised her arms slightly with palms facing upwards and took a deep breath. “Spirits of the afterlife, we salute you,” she intoned in a sonorous voice. “Beloved Nellie Barchester, we bring you gifts from life into death. Be guided by the light of this world and visit upon us.”
She paused for a moment. The candle burned steadily. Pip sat motionless in his chair, his eyes fixed on her. The quiet of the night pressed in on the room.
She repeated the chant, then waited. A moment later came an unearthly rapping which echoed around the room. The noise was merely generated by Julian knocking on a pipe from behind the curtain as Madame Olga had instructed. Pip jolted in his chair, a line of moisture beading his upper lip.
“A spirit walks among us.” She addressed her words to the space above Pip’s head. “Thank you for your presence, O spirit. Are you Nellie Barchester?” She paused, then nodded. “Thank you, Nellie Barchester, for your presence. Your husband wishes to communicate with you.”